


Unpredictable

by Potrix



Series: Unpredictable [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Insecurity, Light Angst, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: Jaskier peers up at Geralt with wide, shining eyes, his smile a trembling little thing as he whispers, “Contrary to popular belief, dear Witcher, I do not set out to get myself hurt.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Character(s)
Series: Unpredictable [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593292
Comments: 139
Kudos: 4222





	Unpredictable

**Author's Note:**

> Watched the Netflix show, couldn't resist. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> My 100th work here on AO3 and my first fic about these two massive idiots. I have tentative plans for a few more loosely connected stories, but I'm headed back to work/school tomorrow, so we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> For now, enjoy Geralt being dumb about feelings.
> 
> (Set sometime after 1.04 but before 1.06. Vaguely.)

Unpredictable. 

What Geralt dislikes most about humans is how unpredictable they are. 

Animals, beasts, monsters—they’re different, simpler. If they’re tired, they sleep. If they’re hungry, they eat. If they’re in rut or heat, they mate. If they feel threatened, they attack.

Easy. Simple. 

Predictable. 

Humans, though. Humans, not so much. 

And Jaskier least of all, in Geralt’s experience. 

Prime example; this feast. Supposedly celebrated in Geralt’s honour, as a thank you for ridding the town of a nest of drowners, in actuality little more than an excuse for the townsfolk to drink and fuck. Which, Geralt assumes, is what Jaskier is up to as well. 

Part of Geralt wants to leave him wherever he is, but, also from experience, Geralt knows chances are high that dealing with whatever mess Jaskier might get himself into while unsupervised will be much more time-consuming than looking for him now and dragging him back to the inn. 

Especially since luck seems to be on Geralt’s side, for once. Jaskier stumbles out of a room into the first corridor of the Lord’s mansion Geralt decides to wander down. Followed by another man, who grabs Jaskier’s arm to spin him back around. 

Geralt huffs. Of course. 

Jaskier, though. Jaskier is giggling, has clearly had a fair share of ale, and lets the man pull him close. 

“No, no, no,” Jaskier says, breathlessly, between huffs of laughter, “I’ve got to go, I—”

The man shakes his head, smiling, laughing too, and presses a sloppy kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “Stay. For tonight, at least.”

“Mmh, tempting,” Jaskier hums. He turns his head, lips meeting the man’s for a moment, the angle just right for him to spot Geralt. “But! See, my friend, can’t leave him waiting, now, can I?”

The man barely spares Geralt a glance before focusing back on Jaskier. He leans in close, whispers something that has another laugh bubble out of Jaskier’s throat, then steps back. With a grin and an exaggerated bow, he kisses the back of Jaskier’s hand, turns, and vanishes back inside the room. 

Geralt breathes in, for the first time in too long. 

Jaskier is practically skipping, chattering animatedly as they make their way towards the inn. He only stops, startled, once Geralt roughly pushes his pack against his chest before going to collect his own things. 

“Geralt?”

“We’re leaving.” Geralt picks up and shoulders his sword case. “Now.” 

“Why—” Jaskier starts, holding up his hands when Geralt growls at him. “All right, we’re leaving. In the middle of the night, while it’s dark and cold outside.” Sarcastically, he adds, “As you wish.” 

Geralt stalks outside. Jaskier follows, albeit reluctantly, muttering curses under his breath. Loud enough that he knows Geralt can hear him. 

Roach isn’t thrilled about being woken, nipping at Geralt’s sleeve before letting him mount. Geralt pets her neck, silently vowing to find her some treats come morning. 

He shifts a little, twisting to hold a hand out to Jaskier. It happens rarely enough, still, that Jaskier’s face brightens, some of his sour mood evaporating as he slides into place behind Geralt. 

They ride in relative silence, for a while—Jaskier humming softly, never really, truly quiet—until Geralt feels Jaskier slump against him, a warm weight as he dozes. Snores softly. Never really, truly quiet.

Geralt rides on and does not think. 

Tries not to. 

Fails miserably. 

Jaskier is—Jaskier is unpredictable. Human. Humanly unpredictable. 

What Geralt’s seen tonight, it doesn’t change a thing. It shouldn’t. Geralt doesn’t do—this. Any of it. He doesn’t need anyone and, more importantly, he doesn’t want anyone to need him. 

And yet…

And yet. 

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts.

*****

Dawn is fast approaching when they reach the outskirts of the closest town. It’s small, quaint, but there is an inn with a sign outside, advertising unoccupied rooms.

Jaskier wakes as Geralt hops off Roach, bleary-eyed and stumbling a little before he finds his own footing. He mumbles to himself, not yet fully present, while Geralt gets them a room and arranges for hay, oats and water to be brought outside for Roach. 

There’s a washroom attached to their room and Geralt leaves Jaskier to sprawl on one of the beds as he goes to wash up. He’s lost his armour and shirt, is scrubbing at something unidentifiable on his side when Jaskier pushes open the door to lean against the frame, arms crossed. 

“You know,” he muses, not deterred in the slightest when Geralt turns his back again to wet the cloth once more. “This has been strange, even for you. Your behaviour tonight. At the feast.”

Geralt runs the cloth over his shoulder. “Hmm.” 

“Thought you’d say that.” Jaskier steps closer, meeting Geralt’s eyes in the dirty little mirror above the wash basin. He looks determined. Unusually—somber. Serious. “You’re being a shit because I’m an equal opportunity lover, aren’t you?” 

“I’m not being a shit,” Geralt denies. Fruitlessly. 

Jaskier snorts. Angrily, nostrils flaring. “You practically dragged me out of that mansion. I’ve got to admit, Geralt, I wouldn’t have thought you, of all people, to believe in silly, human prejudices born—”

“Jaskier—”

“—out of some ridiculous, vaguely religious horseshit—”

“Jaskier—”

“—that’s being spewed by the same ignorant, thick-headed buffoons calling for your head on a spike every other day—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt barks and whirls around, bringing them chest to chest. Nose to nose, almost. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, lips parted. Geralt allows himself to look, to watch as Jaskier’s tongue darts out to wet the bottom one. “Jaskier.” 

“What—” Jaskier begins, but, wisely, shuts up for once in his life when Geralt brings their mouths together. 

He breathes out, shuddering, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, fleeting, before snapping back open. “Geralt,” he says, has to clear his throat, fingers coming up to ghost over Geralt’s jaw, “no.” 

It’s—not what Geralt had expected. 

Unpredictable, yet again. 

But Jaskier does not pull his hand back. Does not step away.

Neither does Geralt. They watch each other. Waiting. 

“Geralt—”

“Why,” Geralt grits out, something heavy trying to settle in his chest. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t like it. “Why not.” 

It’s a growl, more than a question. To push down the—the thing, in his chest, the one Geralt really does not like. 

Jaskier laughs shakily, thunks his head against Geralt’s chest, leaving it there for several long seconds. “Having a bit of fun is one thing, a fine thing, a lovely thing. Affection is another, not less, not more. Getting one while wanting the other, however? Neither fine nor lovely, not at all.” 

He peers up at Geralt with wide, shining eyes, his smile a trembling little thing as he whispers, “Contrary to popular belief, dear Witcher, I do not set out to get myself hurt.” 

The thing in Geralt’s chest turns heavier. Cold. He curls his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist, holding his hand where it’s still touching Geralt’s cheek. 

He isn’t sure why. 

He’s sure he has to. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, a single word filled to the brim with forlornness, “I—”

“Jaskier, I—” Geralt cuts himself off, frowns at himself. Has to take a moment to find what he wants to say. To find the strength to say it, out loud, once he has it. “Let me try. Not to. Not to hurt you.” Belatedly, he tacks on a, “Please,” that makes Jaskier chuckle, quiet but honest, real. 

“Simple as that?” he challenges.

Geralt sets his jaw. “Yes.”

“You are,” Jaskier says, slowly shaking his head, “undoubtedly the most stubborn man I have ever had the misfortunate pleasure of stalking across the Continent.” 

Geralt scowls, but before he can make up his mind as to if he should take offense, Jaskier murmurs, “One more thing to add to the long list of regrets, why not?” and pushes up against Geralt, standing on the very tips of his toes, to kiss him firmly. 

The thing in Geralt’s chest dissolves, burning hot. Warming him from the inside out. 

They make it to the nearest bed, somehow, making the old wooden frame groan under their combined weight as they collapse down on it. Jaskier’s fingers slide into Geralt’s hair, getting to work on loosening the tie, while Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathing him in. 

A hint of sweat, from travelling for hours. Traces of ale and smoke, leftovers from last night’s feast, none of it enough to cover the smell that’s uniquely Jaskier. Underneath all of it, though, there’s something sharp that doesn’t belong, something that needs to go. Geralt drags his lips over the offending area, nibbles at the skin until he’s satisfied, cock twitching, that it’s only his own scent clinging to Jaskier. 

He licks a stripe up to Jaskier’s ear, pulls the lobe between his teeth, tugs at it, then again when it makes Jaskier’s breath hitch. He sucks a mark into the delicate skin behind it, nuzzles down his throat until he’s stopped by Jaskier’s doublet. 

Jaskier begins to protest when Geralt rips it open, impatient, heedless of the button or two that skip away onto the floor. The curse dies on his lips, however, as Geralt rucks up his undershirt to trail his lips down Jaskier’s stomach, towards the waist of his breeches. 

“You will be the death of me, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier sighs breathily when Geralt tugs at the breeches’ strings with his teeth. “And there will be no one to carry the tale of my untimely yet glorious demise out into the world. A shame, really—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt props his chin against Jaskier’s hip, waits until Jaskier looks down at him. “Shut up.” 

It earns him a heel to the ribs, but Jaskier obediently lifts his hips for Geralt to divest him of his breeches and underthings, so Geralt can’t be bothered to retaliate. Instead, he sits back to undo his own trousers, freeing his straining cock. He strokes it absently, once, twice, and Jaskier moans, hands grabbing for Geralt. 

“Come here, come here, come here,” he chants, pulling at Geralt. Wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist, back arching.

Their cocks rub together, hot and wet. This time, they both moan. 

They fall into a rhythm easily, hips moving together seamlessly. Jaskier’s hands, shaking, are back in Geralt’s freed hair, strands wrapped tightly around his fingers. Geralt has one hand gripping Jaskier’s waist, bruisingly tight, to guide him, the other cupping the back of his head, holding him where he wants him.

Jaskier is mewling against Geralt’s lips, breathless _ah_ s punched out of him with each of Geralt’s thrusts. His cock jerks against Geralt’s, so Geralt sneaks a hand between them, wraps it around the both of them. Jaskier shouts, loudly, and comes after three, four strokes, spilling warmly over both of them. 

The sight before him—Jaskier’s head thrown back, pale throat bearing Geralt’s marks exposed wantonly—combined with the scent of Jaskier’s release is enough for Geralt to follow quickly, groaning his own climax against Jaskier’s cheek.

Once he believes himself steady enough to do so, Geralt moves to the side just enough as not to crush Jaskier. It allows Jaskier enough room to turn his face into Geralt’s neck, his mouth smiling where it’s brushing Geralt’s skin. 

Jaskier’s fingers are still tangled in Geralt’s hair. 

Holding on tight. 

*****

Geralt doesn’t sleep, though he lets himself drift until he feels Jaskier go slack beneath him. He snuffles, nose wrinkling, when Geralt carefully extracts himself, but settles again easily enough after Geralt has pulled the sheets up to cover him. 

A quick glance outside confirms that not much time has passed, the sun still low in the sky. They have nowhere to be, nowhere to rush to for a little while yet, so Geralt draws the curtains to keep the light out. He picks his shirt up from the washroom, pulling it on, then stows his pack and swords away underneath the small desk in the corner, out of the way.

There are faint sounds starting to come from the tavern downstairs, murmured voices and the clanking of pots and pans. With a few coins in hand, Geralt makes his way to the kitchens. 

It’s early enough that he has to wait for the porridge to finish cooking, but he doesn’t mind. It’s rare that he gets a morning like this, with no urging matter he needs to attend to, no trouble he’s eager to leave behind. 

He might as well enjoy it, while it lasts. 

The cook is more than happy to part with a loaf of fresh bread on top of the two bowls of porridge when Geralt slides him the coins. He carries everything back upstairs, surprised to see Jaskier awake when he nudges open the door, quiet as he can. 

Jaskier’s head snaps up at the creak of it, his eyes widening. He’s still wearing his half unbuttoned undershirt, his hair a right mess from where he’s clearly been running his fingers through it. 

“Geralt.” 

Geralt sets the food down on the small table next to the bed, watching Jaskier all the while. Jaskier’s eyes never leave Geralt, following his every move, almost transfixed. Geralt grunts. “What.” 

“I—nothing.” Jaskier seems to shake himself out of whatever strange mood he’d been in. There’s a flush to his cheeks and his smile appears almost shy. “It’s nothing.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt steps in close. “Lift your arms.” 

Jaskier does, allows Geralt to pull his ruined undershirt over his head. He buries himself under the sheets, making himself comfortable, but shakes his head when Geralt goes to hand him one of the bowls.

Instead, he holds out his arms. “Join me?” 

“The food is going to grow cold,” Geralt warns, even as he starts undressing himself. “Don’t complain later.” 

“I won’t,” Jaskier says. Definitely lies, Geralt knows him enough to tell. “I don’t care. Come here, Geralt.” 

Geralt steps out of his boots and goes. 

They can eat later.

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt, oblivious: Gonna get some food, yo.  
> Jaskier: ABANDONED!
> 
> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com).


End file.
